


Symphony of Bones

by RunningHaunted



Series: Kindred [10]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, In this house we hate Stregobor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Protective!Geralt, Renfri and Jaskier are twins, Renfri is a softy for her brother only, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Suicidal Ideation, geralt is dumb, witchers are not human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28269966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunningHaunted/pseuds/RunningHaunted
Summary: Roach would like to add that none of this is her fault and that she blames everything on Geralt and his inability TO FUNCTION PROPERLY!akaShit really hits the fan in this one
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Roach
Series: Kindred [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584472
Comments: 49
Kudos: 288





	Symphony of Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Omg would you look at- that- how- why- what- A NEW INSTALLMENT! THIS ISN’T DEAD YET!?  
> So yeah, early Christmas present for ya’ll. I finally managed to finish this after many months of crap going down on a daily and escaping reality by playing Zelda Breath Of The Wild. Yayyyyy!
> 
> This is not grammar proofed yet but my wonderful beta @Chesh_of_the_Shire was so wonderful to read this over in record time to give me the go ahead to post this early! You’re wonderful dear! and you should all bow down to them and say thank you! 
> 
> Like pretty much always i haven’t managed to get back to most of the comments last chapter yet but (like always) I’m definitely gonna take the time soon to reply to all of them! They mean the world to me and honestly serve as one of the best pick-me-ups when I’m having a particularly bad day. I love you all so much for taking the time to comment on this story and be assured that even if it takes me some time to reply each and every one is appreciated. It’s what’s kept this story going for this long :3
> 
> Without further ado: Ready. Set. READ!

Geralt wakes with a start. 

There’s no soft coming to, no instance of half awareness, no peace to be found in something that’s so utterly-

Jaskier. 

No. 

Oh gods-

**No**!

Geralt’s standing before he’s even capable of peeling his eyes open, steadying himself against the bed frame with shaky legs and a body that doesn’t know whether it’s supposed to obey him yet or not. 

It’s still night. Maybe early morning? The fire has died down to embers, but it’s still ever so slightly burning, which means not too much time has passed since Jaskier left. 

A wave of nausea makes the Witcher double over, every fiber in his body trying to reject whatever Jaskier had drugged him with. 

Geralt is so fucking stupid. He’d noticed that something was off, that Jaskier’s entire behavior had been on a steady downward spiral since Eskel parted ways with them. 

But the beast-thing-monster under his skin had been too busy snarling at him to kill the offending mutant that had so easily snatched Jaskier’s attention away from him. To gut Eskel and choke the bard until he’d understand that he’s not someone else’s to take-

And Geralt had spent all his energy reining that part in, to keep it under lock and key and as far away from the surface as possible. 

He’d noticed something had been wrong. He’d just been convinced that thing had made him paranoid. 

Fuck. 

He stumbles forward, almost slamming face first into the bed post when his feet trip over something lying on the floor. 

A look down confirms that the offending piece is rather big. A wooden case with familiar floral patterns winding all around, birds etched into the dark red leather strap. 

Jaskier’s lute. 

His lute. 

No. No no no-

Fuck. 

Geralt only stops to shrug on his armor, taking longer than he should with his sluggish limbs, haphazardly grabbing both his swords before falling out the door and down the stairs, giving the innkeeper a heart attack when he slams his fists on the counter, growling “where did he go!?”

The poor man startles so bad the vase he’d been cleaning clatters to the floor, bursting into tiny pieces of ceramic as he jumps away from the aggravated witcher, almost falling backward over a chair in his haste. “Wh-wha-!?”

“Where” Geralt growls, voice slipping into something decidedly not human. The beast-monster-thing writhes and snarls, rattling his insides in an attempt to get going and hunt-seek-protect-kill-keep. A tangle of paradoxical urges burning the drug out of his system, sending every single nerve ending into overdrive. “-did the bard go?”

The innkeeper blanches, clearly trembling as he stutters incoherently. 

Geralt is aware he’s probably terrifying the man right now. His usual calm facade in tatters, teeth bared like a deranged animal, fingers pushing dents into the fragile wood of the counter, but goddamnit, there’s no time to care for that right now! 

**_ “WHERE!?” _ **

“I-I’m not sure” the innkeeper stutters, inching backward as far as he’s able. “He didn’t say, but-“

Vile curses slip past the Witcher’s lips as he bangs a small pouch of coin on the counter, yelling at the innkeeper to keep the room reserved until he’s back. 

And then he’s out the door. 

Cool night air clears away the leftover fog in his brain. He can already hear Roach’s agitated whinnying from the stables, hear her hooves collide with the walls of her box in an attempt to get out. 

It takes less than five minutes to get to her, saddle her, attach the swords to the sides and haul himself up onto the steed’s back. 

Roach doesn’t require any coaxing to immediately break into a full blown gallop, nearly stomping a poor maid to death in their haste to follow Jaskier. 

Geralt had gambled with fate and drawn the short end again, choosing to keep quiet rather than confront Jaskier like Eskel had adviced. Renfri is something that will stick with the Witcher for the rest of his life, but knowing what he does now- 

Fuck, he already let it get too far for too long if Jaskier truly thinks Geralt able to kill him and live with that knowledge. Live with the memory of having his hands slick with the bard’s blood, disposing of the body like he’s just some-

_ No.  _

He will get there in time. 

He will stop Jaskier and they’ll go to Yen and they will fix this. They will. They have to. 

If not-

Geralt drives his calves into Roach’s side. 

The mare huffs, muscles bunching as she pushes forward even harder, reaching a speed no horse that doesn’t belong to a witcher could ever hope to achieve. 

The woods turn to a blur, rain turning the obscured path into a hazardous landslide. Roach doesn’t falter, every step finding purchase where there shouldn’t be any. 

Geralt spurs her on, trying— and failing— to keep the images of butchered bodies and vacant blue eyes at bay.

——

Finding Stregobor is, surprisingly, not the hard part. 

Butchering him on the other hand is. 

“Fucking” Swipe, side step “Stand STILL!”

Stregobor’s eyes glint in the candle light. 

For an old man he’s surprisingly agile on his feet, ducking beneath every single stab Jaskier directs at him. 

Jaskier knows his foot work is good. Knows his fighting skills in general are good. So how the hell is the bloody bastard managing to avoid having his guts spilled on the floor? 

“Ah, that stage, I see.”

“Shut up and die already!”

———

Roach doesn’t tire, doesn’t slow. 

No matter how hard Geralt pushes her the mare manages to push harder, gaining speed when he thinks she’s at her limit. 

He‘s vigorously fighting off the lingering effects of the sleeping potion, biting his tongue until copper fills his mouth every time his eyes start to droop. 

Geralt knows this potion. Had learned about it a long time back, learned how to test for it, how to watch out for it. 

Jaskier was supposed to be safe. The only threat an outside source he’d had to fend off, keeping the bard well within his shadow during the process, safe and sound. 

The witcher‘s hands tighten on the reins, the snarling and snapping in his ears becoming louder and louder until the din drowns out the beat of hooves and rain. 

Eskel had betrayed him. He’d betrayed him. He’d given Jaskier an out and Jaskier fucking took it. 

The need to tear into the other witcher is like an itch underneath Geralt‘s skin, overshadowed only by the near blinding panic dominating every other sense. 

It‘s such a foreign feeling. A foreign concept. 

Witchers don’t panic. They do not feel for things that aren’t their own. 

Geralt urges Roach onward, up a steep hill and into the opening of a field stretching before them, the dark shapes of trees rising in the distance. 

The air changes before long, pine and rain suddenly saturated with the scent of ozone and rot, a peculiar kind of magic that has Geralt grind his teeth. 

Roach barrels through the reeds like there’s no stopping her, more than once making a deer leap out from it’s hiding place to avoid being trampled, near flying the distance to the other side. 

A dark shape bursts from the trees in front of them and Geralt pulls hard on the reins, Roach reacting immediately but still colliding with the breathless stallion rearing back on its hind legs.

The mare‘s head shoots forward, delivering an angry bite to the other‘s muscular neck as she shoots on past and Geralt has only a few seconds to drink in the details of the strange horse that continues its way back the way they came. 

It‘s mottled with dirt, hints of white and gray peeking through where the rain had pelted down, bridle a dark maroon color. No rider.

Geralt remembers the horse from the stables. 

He drives his calves into Roach‘s side and the mare hurtles forward once more. 

——

Stregobor draws him deeper into the ruins of the castle, throwing balls of flames at one turn and lightning at another. 

Jaskier dodges each of them, half distracted by Renfri’s stricken face and body trying to block his path. 

He steps through like it’s smoke, taking comfort in the scent of wilderness and poppyseeds. 

The ruined hallways start giving way to a maze of of intact halls branching off every few meters as they descend deeper and deeper, passing murals of valiant heroes and monsters. 

Jaskier’s dagger scrapes across the wall, leaving deep marks in the stone. 

Stregobor leers. 

“My, what an interesting dagger.“

Jaskier grins, all bloody and feral. “Take comfort in that when I cut your ugly head off!”

This is nothing like the dance between him and his sister when they were younger. Nothing like the flow of water over hollowed stone. 

Nothing like the song and sweetened wine after another day of surviving and robbing. 

The next few steps lead Jaskier into the opening of the catacombs below the castle, rows upon rows of graves set in stone. 

_ Stop! _

The lack of dust, however, should have been the first warning. 

_ Julian ! _

But Jaskier is too busy dodging half assed spells and ignoring Renfri and forgetting Geralt’s shell shocked expression when he’d finally realized what a god damn awful monster he is-

His throat clogs up, but not due to the rancid smell of rotting flesh permeating the air. 

_ Stop! Please!  _

Which doesn’t makes sense at all. The corpses buried here should be too old by now, just bones and murky dust. 

Leave!

He stumbles into an eerily drawn circle on the floor, lashing out once more at the mage only to have him vanish, quite literally, at the tips of his fingers. 

_ Julian! **LEAVE**! _

Jaskier overbalances, a hand between his shoulder blades pushing him until his momentum is Toto strong and he goes barreling straight into the cobwebs of a dusty alcove etched into the walls, arms flailing comically as he scrambles for purchase where there is none. 

Literally, none. 

Not even a coffin lid or something equally as useful and even before he goes down the sickly sweet smell of death and decay assaults him and has him brace for the feeling of rotten flesh on his own skin and- 

It‘s soft. Alarmingly so, and Jaskier has about half a second to wonder what the fuck he‘s landed on (because it’s definitely not a skeleton or something quite rotten) before pushing himself up to jump out of the way in case the deranged mage takes advantage of the small opening. 

He doesn’t get to the point where he can manage to jump away though. 

Instead the bard pushes himself up until he sees what he’d landed on. 

Ashen skin fills his vision, then bloodless lips and dark lashes, then brown hair and ultimately the white gash at the center of the throat, no longer oozing blood but looking all the more gruesome for that it’s revealing all the severed veins and maggot infested flesh beneath. 

It takes a second for his brain to process the familiar curve of the nose, the slope of the cheek bones, until his mind catches up to whose face he is staring into. 

Jaskier’s mouth drops open into a deafening scream.

——

Geralt is halfway to the gate when a wail splits the air. A sound so undeniably Jaskier yet wrong that the Witcher almost crashes into the door in his haste, barreling straight past the entrance and jumping off Roach’s back while she’s still skidding to a stop, panting harshly. 

Geralt’s broken into a run even before the hilt of his sword rests in his hand. 

—— 

Jaskier is hauled away from his sister’s corpse by the scruff of his jacket, choking as the seam digs itself into his throat while twisting in Stregobor’s grip until his hands find purchase and a hard tug makes something in the mage’s finger snap. 

Curses fill the mausoleum and Jaskier puts as much distance between himself and that monster of a sorcerer as he can, panting harshly against the horror filling his veins with ice and burning heat simultaneously. 

Bile wants to claw its way up Jaskier‘s throat, his jaw already feeling numb with the intensity of shock to his system, and it takes all of the bard’s willpower to shove it back down. 

The vertigo, however, remains. 

Something crashes down the hall the way he’d come and Jaskier uses the momentary distraction to propel himself forward once more, aiming a kick at one of the mage’s kneecaps with vicious intent spurring him on. 

Stregobor narrowly manages to avoid having another bone shattered by vanishing into a wall of smoke, reappearing a few feet away with an annoyed scowl on his face. “My, we’re getting a guest, it seems... We better hurry this along then.“

Jaskier is about to retort with a snide comment when Stregobor lifts a hand and Jaskier’s vision whites out momentarily and he’s suddenly standing in the middle of an overgrown courtyard, the cold night air jarring his lungs. 

Time to gather himself is sparse, however, and before long Jaskier is forced to avoid a rope of thorny vines shooting out from the trees, attempting to wrap around his body in a strangling hold. 

The bard slashes with the blade, cutting off a particularly insistent row of vines. 

He located Stregobor shortly thereafter. The bastard not even paying attention to Jaskier. Too busy cradling his abused finger. 

He has half a mind to cut it off and shove it so far up-

A roar cuts through the courtyard, terrifying in its blatant fury, echoing loudly from the crumbled walls of the courtyard, and Jaskier can feel his face blanch with recognition.

Geralt. Geralt is here. 

He found Jaskier. 

Too quick. Too damn quick. 

Stregobor isn’t dead yet- no- no- he can’t die before that monster is dead-

No, in this, Jaskier refuses to be his sister. 

He crouches low when the next branch snaps above his head and, putting every muscle into pushing himself forward, vaults across the courtyard, closing the distance between the insane sorcerer and himself in a mere second. 

In doing so he catches sight of Roach out of the corner of his eye for a split second, the mare rearing up on her hind legs before a tear in the pavement separating her from the courtyard. 

Good, Jaskier thinks. If Roach got hurt trying to do something stupid like aid him, Geralt might just resort to slowly roasting the bard over a fire in punishment.

Although Jaskier is sure he would make for a damn fine piece of smoking hot meat. However, that’s beside the point right now. 

The mage throws his arm out and Jaskier is flung backwards, breath knocked from his lungs as he lands on his ass in a rather pitiful pile. 

Stregobor bellows something in a language lost to time and Jaskier curses in horror when, out of the earth, bones rise and cluster together, spreading a putrid air throughout the courtyard. 

The bones clash, the decomposing bits of soft tissue that stubbornly cling to its dead hosts suddenly meshing with severed jaws, breast bones, femurs and spines, breathing life into the grotesque creature lifting its patchwork head with a mournful groan.

Jaskier can do naught but stare for a few moments, fear setting his mind alight as his brain tries to process what the sorcerer had just conjured from beyond the veil. 

The thing is at least nine feet tall, head— if it can be called such— a morbid collection of numerous skulls, not all of them human, staring from empty sockets at everything and nothing, oddly reminiscent of the statues of old. 

The bones making up the rest of its body shift with every movement, rippling nauseatingly with each groan echoing from the many mouths, the remaining pieces of flesh and sinews a horrifying parody of muscles. 

Jaskier has to avert his eyes lest the sight make him sick. 

Necromancy. Of the most foul kind. Of fucking course. 

The creature moans again, a long and harrowing sound reverberating through Jaskier‘s skull.

Stregobor laughs, utterly mad when a blur of white hair and golden eyes darts out from the tunnels. 

Geralt slides to a quick stop before the conjured monster, assessing the new enemy with a clinical stare before allowing his gaze to stray to Jaskier and Stregobor, still far enough away from the Witcher to muffle any and all sounds Geralt might have been making in light of the pitiful moans pressing forth from the creatures vocal chords. 

Geralt sneers at them, although the murderous intent Jaskier can see there is probably reserved for him alone. 

Oh well, his dear Witcher has to wait his turn in this one. It would do Geralt well to learn a lesson or two on the topic of patience, anyway. 

Also, Jaskier doubts that thing will hinder Geralt’s advances for long. Stregobor might not be as dumb as Jaskier likes to think, but mages (people in general, really) have an awful habit of underestimating the famous “Butcher of Blaviken” to a point where it’s getting ridiculous. 

Jaskier falls back into stance, knees bend as his focus returns to the enemy, knife held at breast height. 

Stregobor grins at him, the chaos swirling through the air almost like a live thing, strung taut with the desire to be set loose. 

For a mere second Jaskier’s vision tilts, and—between one blink and the next— the world is tinted scarlet. Stregobor’s eyes are a mess of sutures, oozing black liquid while the place where his mouth should be is a smooth plane. 

There’s a shadow behind him, looming with pale eyes and long claws, sucking in every ounce of light in its vicinity. 

The thing’s stare seems to bore into Jaskier’s soul, making the marbles crash and pound against his skull, inspiring a sense of vertigo as one clawed hand lifts and points behind Stregobor, to a place where the earth is charred into a small circle. 

The thing points at it, cocks its head, then vanishes when Jaskier blinks the bizarre vision away. 

_ Don’t step inside it! _ Renfri whispers urgently somewhere to his left.  _ Whatever you do ! _

Stregobor sighs. “To be frank, I’d hoped our dear Geralt would have kept away for longer. It’s a shame. Now I can’t study you for as long as I’d hoped.”

Gods, Jaskier is going to enjoy snuffing the life right out of this poor excuse for a human being. “Oh no, I’m terribly sorry to rain on your parade.”

The mage shrugs serenely. “For all it’s worth, once I’ve banished you to the depths of the dark dimension your blood will do this continent a lot of good.”

An animalistic snarl cuts off any further commentary and Jaskier more hears than seesthe violent swings of Geralt’s silver sword as it comes into contact with the conjured abomination. 

The creature moans again, a chorus of overlapping voices cresting into a hurt yowl. 

Jaskier grins, triumphant in the knowledge that the Witcher is more than holding his own. 

Stregobor on the other hand purses his lips like he’d just bitten into a maggot infested grape. “Bothersome one, isn’t he? Let’s up the stakes then.”

Chaos washes over Jaskier like a tidal wave, and he prepares himself with gritted teeth for some form pain that never comes. 

Instead Geralt starts cursing.

Never in his life has Jaskier turned around more quickly, breath hitching when he catches the tail end of the Witcher`s sword vanish in the tall grass somewhere behind accursed mage. Leaving Geralt without protection from the creature intent on killing him. 

Fear seizes Jaskier, has him freeze up while Renfri screams at him to  move, _move_ , **_move_** . 

But the sight of the amalgamation of bones shooting forward with hitherto unprecedented speed quiets every coherent thought, save for the din of bells (gems? marbles?) becoming louder and louder and louder-

Jaskier darts past Stregobor, throwing himself on the discarded silver sword, ignoring the sensation of burning when his hands come into contact with the cursed metal, hands grabbing desperately for the hilt even as Stregobor grasps his hair. Jaskier growls, forcing his arms into a low swing so the sword sails from his hands in an arc, embedding itself a few meters from the Witcher in soft soil. 

Stregobor hisses, yanking Jaskier backwards. 

For once the bard moves with the violent pull and lets himself get dragged up and pushed the small way to the circle before digging his heels in, hand clenching around the item he‘d wrenched free. 

A few meters behind them Geralt snarls viciously, trying his damndest to get past the summoned creature while simultaneously making a leap for the sword of silver. 

“Stop struggling!” 

Stregobor growls into his ear, and the bard’s fingers close tight around the small object in his palm until he can feel blood well up. 

Renfri shrieks and Jaskier twists, driving the pointed end of the brooch straight through the mage‘s jugular in a fluent motion. 

Blood splashes, hot and sticky, flowing along the bard’s arm, splashing into his face, seeping into the ground and the scent of it is coppery and sweet and oh so very satisfying that Jaskier could bathe in it and it wouldn’t be enough he needs more of this more and more and aöö the gold in the world wouldn’t be able to measure up to-

_Julian_...

Stregobor gurgles, eyes rolling, and Jaskier releases the dying man like he’s poison, horrified at his own train of thought. 

No, no. That’s not him. It’s not. He’s not-

Stregobor hits the ground with a muffled thud, crimson fanning out from his body like the parody of a halo. 

This is all Jaskier has been dreaming of for years, but all he feels right now is sick. Tired. 

“Jaskier.”

On the horizon, only visible through the holes in the walls, the sky begins to brighten. It makes Jaskier wonder how long the fight had lasted. It feels like mere minutes had past. 

He thinks of his twin`s body, lying cold in the catacombs below his feet. Thinks of all the other bodies there, their souls bending and twisting themselves around every crook and cranny in these gods awful halls, longing for reprieve from this torture lasting long past death. 

A soft snout touches the top of his head and Jaskier startles badly, accidentally bumping his head against Roach’s. The mare whinnies softly, stepping away from Jaskier to reveal Geralt still standing where the beast used to be, silver sword held aloft, piles upon piles of half rotten bones at his feet. 

A distant part of Jaskier`s brain wonders how she`d managed to bridge the gap in the pavement, but quickly decides that the unfathomable look in Geralt’s eyes as he begins advancing is far more interesting. And worrisome. 

Then again, it was always so supposed to come down to this, right?

_Julian_...

Jaskier smiles, oh so tired as he stands there in the dim light of predawn, resolutely avoiding looking at the sharp blade in Geralt’s hand. 

The smell of rot and decay is already dissolving, fleeing the confines of its grave by a gentle draft running through the ruined hallways, wafting throughout the courtyard, carrying bone dust out into the field. 

“Well, let’s get it over with then.”

The witcher frowns, taking a step closer, ever so slowly, as if he expects Jaskier to succumb to the instinct of fight or flight like the lower creatures. 

He wonders what the cold blade will feel like drawing across his throat. Or entering his chest. Not a pleasant thought. 

“It’s fine. I know you have to.”

Geralt shakes his head, hand gripping the sword tighter. “No.” He says, the sound of it almost strangled. “Jaskier, no.”

Jaskier looks at the sword in Geralt‘s hand, wary, opening his mouth to ask... what? He’s not sure, because in the next moment Geralt‘s eyes widen and he lets out a warning cry, hand shooting out as if to grab the bard and then the world

_tilts_

on its 

axis. 

——

It’s barely a nanosecond later that Roach’s hooves come down on the mage’s head with a sickening crack, spilling gore and brain matter all over the dirty ground, dyeing every inch a gruesome red. 

Geralt doesn’t spare the violent sight a single glance, already rushing forward to catch the bard. To no avail. 

Jaskier goes down like a puppet with its strings cut, legs twisted oddly beneath him, arms splayed to either side, head tilted towards Geralt, blue eyes vacant empty vacant vacantvoidvacant-

Vesemir would be ashamed of how Geralt falls to his knees beside the still body, barely remembering to let go of the sword clutched in a vice like grip, no-fuck-no-please-no’s spilling from his mouth like a prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in. 

Geralt knows even before his fingers scramble for the bard’s neck that he won’t find a pulse, doesn’t need the still warm flesh void of a heartbeat beneath his hand to tell him it’s useless. That he’s made the wrong decision. Again. Fuck. 

The low whine he hadn’t realized coming from his throat dies abruptly, leaving behind an empty sort of silence. 

Roach throws her head back and forth in the corner of his tunnel vision, still fixed on Jaskier’s too pale, too still face, eyes wide open, blue eyes staring into the dawn, unseeing. 

Her hooves make squelching sounds on the muddy ground, sending droplets of wet earth and blood flying through the air.

Geralt can’t look away from him, from Jaskier’s slightly parted lips, cornflower eyes staring far off into nothing, the pallor of his face going ashy-

Dead. 

The beast-thing-something howls, quiet at first, before the sound starts cresting, coming in like a tidal wave, drowning out every other sound until all he can feel is the restless buzz of boundless anger and despair and self loathing and all he can see is Jaskier Jaskier Jaskierjaskierjask-

Dead. 

Gone. 

He snaps. 

**Author's Note:**

> Stregobor: I’m a collector  
> Jaskier: nobody cares. You probably collect creepy dolls or some shit  
> Stregobor: no, i collect girls  
> Jaskier, spluttering: you what????  
> Stregobor: dead girls  
> Jaskier, getting ready to charge: ... aight, lemme kill you thrice over you F*#*!  
> Geralt, waking up from a coma, panicked: i sense my bard is boutta do something stupid 
> 
> —————
> 
> So, will jaskier stay dead? Will he?? Will He!? Cmon people, scream at me in the comments!


End file.
